“It’s so dangerous,” said Karen. “I mean, it’s a tremendous idea, but . . .”
Albert brushed the objection aside. “No risk at all,” he said. “If you’re nervous, we’ll give the van fifty yards to roll, instead of thirty.”
* * *
In the week that followed, Albert planned the “shoot,” as he called it, with military precision. Having selected several possible clifftop sites, he drove down to Wales to make a decision on the most suitable. He found one on the Pembrokeshire Coast that was wonderfully remote, with a grassy slope leading straight to a two-hundred foot drop. In his spare moments he worked diligently on the script that he and Karen would have to follow, complete with stage directions.
“We only get one shot at this,” he told her when he returned from scouting the locations. “It has to go like clockwork, while appearing totally unplanned. How are the lessons going?”
“All right,” Karen said.
“You’ve been clocking in with Joe, have you, while I was away?”
She nodded.
“Mastered it yet?”
“I hope so.”
“Hope isn’t good enough,” said Albert. “You’ve got to be certain. Are you going over to see him again?”
“This afternoon.”
“Excellent. He’s a good bloke, isn’t he?”
“He’s very good,” said Karen, and she meant it.
“While you’re in there, I’m going to do a bit of work on the old caravan. It could do with a clean. The smarter it looks, the better the effect.”
So whilst Albert sponged and polished, preparing the caravan for its TV debut, Karen had more tuition from Joe. Really, as Joe explained, the camcorder was a simple machine that almost anyone could use, but if the attractive Mrs Challis wanted more practice with the thing, he was only too pleased to show her how to hold it. No woman had been inside his house since his wife had divorced him two years ago.
For her part, Karen was not displeased to feel Joe’s arm around her shoulders steadying the camera from time to time. He was a most considerate man, and not bad looking, either. And he had double-glazing and central heating. “It seems a real shame that you’re going to lose your caravan through this,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Joe cheerfully. “It’s had its day. I’ve no more use for it. Besides, it’s not in very good condition any more. The door has warped in the damp. You have to give it quite a tug to open it. Better mention that to Albert. A little grease around the sides will ease it.”
* * *
Extremely early Saturday morning, when it was still dark and nobody was about, Albert went over to Joe’s to attach the towbar. He’d arranged to collect Karen at the last minute. She sat in their front room with the lights off, mentally revising the instructions for the video camera. She had collected the camera from Joe after one last session of instruction the previous afternoon. Joe had been a tower of strength.
After what seemed like a couple of hours, Albert drew the caravan from its mooring and swung the car across the street. Karen climbed in, camcorder in hand.
“You’ll do no filming in this light,” Albert said tensely. “I don’t know what you’re holding it for. Chuck it on the back seat.”
“It doesn’t belong to us,” said Karen.
Instead of “tootling along” as he’d promised, Albert drove fast for the first two hours. Two or three times Karen said she was nervous about the car, but he didn’t slow down. Near the Welsh border, as dawn came up, she suggested a stop for filming. Albert said there would be opportunities later.
She reminded him of the reason for having some footage of other places as well as the clifftop, and he relented and let her film some sheep sheltering at the side of the road.
Albert looked at his watch. “I want to get on,” he told her. “The light isn’t so good in the middle of the day. It gets too bright.”
“Joe said it doesn’t matter what time of day you film with one of these.”
“Will you shut up about Joe?”
As they neared their destination, Albert made a couple of short stops to consult the map. The area was very remote.
About ten in the morning, the cliff came up on their left. Albert steered the car off the road and towed the caravan across the turf to the position he’d selected. He secured the brake on the caravan, uncoupled the car and drove back to a point near the road. They had a good view for miles around and no one was in sight.
“Smell it, love?” said Albert.
“The sea air?” said Karen.
“Money, stupid. Ten bloody grand.”
“It’s a good thing there’s no wind,” Karen pointed out as they walked towards the caravan. “This should be good for sound.”
“You talk like you work for the BBC.”
Albert walked towards the cliff edge and peered over. “Perfect,” he enthused. “The tide’s in. There’s a thumping great drop, and it’s going to get smashed to little bits and washed away and turn to driftwood.” He came back to where Karen was standing with the camcorder. “Want to run over your lines?”
“It’s all right,” she said nervously. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Make sure it’s working first.”
She switched on and checked the battery level for the umpteenth time. She took some footage of Albert standing with his back to the cliff edge and they played it back through the eyepiece to check. The clarity was wonderful.
Albert seemed to be getting his confidence back. “Isn’t it just like I promised? The gentle grassy slope, the impressive visual panorama, the sheer bloody suspense of the thing? And just look at that caravan!”
“Like ten thousand grand,” she said, admiring the polished chrome and freshly-cleaned surface.
Albert walked her to her position. “Now you do know what to do?”
She nodded.
“And what to say?”
“Mm.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.”
She watched him walk to the caravan. He had some difficulty opening the door, but he managed it at the second attempt, climbed inside, slammed the door and took his place by the window, opening it wide.
“Can you hear me all right?”
“Perfectly, Albert.”
“Are we ready to roll, then?”
“Yes.”
“Remember what I said. Establish the shot with a view of that cliff to your left, showing just how big the drop is, then pan around slowly along the cliff edge and across the grass to me. Right?”
“Right.”
“Start the camcorder now. Action.”
Heart thumping, Karen pressed the red record button, swinging slowly around to encompass the impressive-looking cliff. She didn’t care any more that her hands were shaking. She watched the grass in the lens, then the white gleam of the caravan, then Albert at the window.
True to his “script,” he held up a piece of metal. The caravan lurched on its mooring feet and for a second, Karen feared that it wasn’t going to move.
Albert spoke his words: “Do you know what this is, love?”
The caravan began to roll.
“It’s the brake, Albert! What is it doing in your hand? Get out —the van’s moving!”
“Bloody hell!”
She saw Albert move fast towards the door and waited for the panic to set in for real.
Thirty yards to the edge.
She screamed his name as loudly as possible, mainly to obscure his shouting. She had stopped filming, of course. The caravan moved sedately on its way. He was desperately trying to open the jammed caravan door. How many times had Joe stressed to her that she should tell Albert to grease the edges? Not once had she considered passing on the information.
She wanted Albert to die.
Twenty yards to go, and it was picking up a little speed.
The worst thing would be finding a phone in this God-forsaken place. The closest must be miles away. Everything else would be simple. A few tears for th
e police. Then hand over the tape. “It must be all on here, officer. It’s been the most awful accident.”
Karen continued to scream, thinking of her future with Joe Tinker with his double-glazing and his central heating and his modern fully-sprung bed with the continental quilt.
Ten yards.
Five.
A moment before the caravan disappeared from view, the caravan door burst open, Albert flung himself out and hit the turf a yard from the edge. He had survived.
Karen was devastated. She flung down the camcorder and stamped her foot. Fortunately, Albert was too shaken to notice. He still lay face down, panting. Eventually she drew herself together and went to him. She could probably have pushed him over, he was so near, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. That would be too direct, a hands-on murder.
Albert said, “That was a bloody near thing.”
“What went wrong?” said Karen as innocently as she was able.
“Couldn’t get the bloody door open. I knew it was difficult. Found that out when I was cleaning the thing. Put some grease on it yesterday, but it wasn’t enough, obviously. Ended up kicking my way out.” He got to his feet. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a leaf.”
Karen said, “Let’s get you to the car.”
“Where’s the camera?”
“Oh, I dropped it over there,” she said. “I’m not sure how much I got. God, I was frightened!”
“Doesn’t matter, love,” said Albert with unusual tenderness. “We can’t use the video anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Evidence. If they ever find anything at the bottom of that cliff and come knocking on our door, the last thing we want is a bloody video of the event.”
She frowned. “They could only find the caravan.”
Albert was shaking his head. “There’s something else. With luck, the sea will take care of it.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Bloody Joe Tinker. When I went in to see him this morning, he said he wanted a half-share of the profits. Five grand! You know me, love. Mean as hell. I lashed out. Hit the bleeder against the kitchen stove and cracked his skull. Killed him outright. What could I do but shove him into his own bloody caravan and bring him down here for disposal?”
“Oh, God, no!” wailed Karen.
“Don’t shed tears over him,” said Albert. “Didn’t you ever notice he fancied you something rotten, the jerk? Like I told you the other night, what I have, I hold.”
WAYZGOOSE
A slight, worried woman in a leather jacket walked into Bath police station.
The desk sergeant eyed her through the protective glass. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Can I speak to someone?”
“You’re speaking to me, ma’am.”
“Someone senior.”
The sergeant had been dealing with the public across this desk for twelve years. “I’m the best on offer.”
Unamused, the woman waited. Her hair was dark and short, shaped to her head. She wore no make-up.
The sergeant coaxed her, “Why don’t you give me some idea what it’s about?”
“I just killed my husband.”
The sergeant bent closer to the glass. “You what?”
“I came in to confess.”
“Hang about, ma’am. Where did this happen?”
“At home. 32, Collinson Road.”
“He’s there now?”
“His body is.”
“Collinson Road. I ought to know it.”
“Twerton.”
The sergeant gestured to a woman police officer behind him and told her to get a response car out to Twerton. Then he asked the woman, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Trish Noble.”
“Trish for Patricia?”
“Yes”
“And your husband’s name?”
“Glenn.”
“What happened, Mrs Noble?”
“He was in a drunken stupor at four in the afternoon when I came in from work, so I was that mad that I threw a teapot at him. Cracked him on the head. It killed him. Is that murder? Will I go to prison?”
“A china teapot?”
“Half full of tea. I’ve always had this wicked temper.”
“Are you sure he’s dead? Maybe you only stunned him.”
She shook her head. “He’s gone all right. I’m a ward sister, and I know.”
“A nurse?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
“You’d better come in and sit down,” said the sergeant. “Go to the door on your right. Someone will see you right away.”
The someone was Superintendent Peter Diamond, the senior detective on duty that afternoon. Diamond was head of the murder squad and this looked like a domestic incident, but as homicide had apparently occurred, he was in duty bound to take an interest. He made quite a courtesy of pulling forward a low, upholstered chair for the woman, then spoilt the effect by seating himself in another with a bump as his knees refused his buttocks a dignified descent. He had a low centre of gravity. A rugby forward in years past, he was better built now for anchorman in a tug-of-war team. “You’re a nurse, I understand, Mrs Noble?”
“Sister on one of the orthopaedic wards.”
“Locally?”
“The Royal United.”
“So . . . ?”
“I came off duty and when I got home Glenn—that’s my husband —was the worse for liquor.”
“You mean drunk?”
“Whatever you want to call it.” She closed her eyes, as if that might shut out the memory.
Mild as milk, Diamond said, “You came in from work and saw him where?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Did you have words?”
“He wasn’t capable of words. I saw red. That’s the way I am. I picked up the teapot—”
“You’d made tea?”
“No. I’d only just come in.”
“So he’d made tea?”
“No, it was still on the table from breakfast, half-full, really heavy. It’s a family sized pot. I picked it up and swung it at him. Hit him smack on the forehead. The pot smashed. There was tea all over his face and chest. He collapsed. First, I thought it was the drink. I couldn’t believe I’d hit him that hard. He’d stopped breathing. I could get nothing from his pulse. I lay him out on the floor and tried mouth-to-mouth, but it was no good.”
She conveyed a vivid picture, the more spectacular considering what a scrap she was. She spoke calmly, her pale blue eyes scarcely blinking. I wouldn’t mind mouth-to-mouth from you, sister, Diamond incorrectly thought.
The door behind him opened and someone looked in, a sergeant. “A word in your ear, sir.”
Diamond wasn’t getting out of that chair. He put a thumb and forefinger to the lobe of his right ear.
The sergeant bent over and muttered, “Report just in from the house, sir. Body in the kitchen confirmed.”
Diamond nodded and asked Mrs Noble, “You said this happened at four in the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“It’s twenty to six now.”
“Is it?”
“Quite a long time since it happened.”
“I’ve been walking the streets, getting a grip on myself.”
“You’re doing OK,” Diamond told her, and meant it. She was a nurse and used to containing her feelings, but this was a stern test. He admired her self-control and he was inclined to believe her story, even if it had strange features. “You didn’t think of phoning us?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Earlier, I mean. When it happened.”
“No point. He was beyond help.”
He offered her a hot drink for the shock—and just stopped short of mentioning tea. She declined.
“You said you saw red at finding him drunk,” he recapped.
Her face tensed. “I disapprove of drink.”
“Was he in work?”
She shook her head. “He was one
of those printers laid off from
Regency Press a year ago.”
“Was he still unemployed?”
“Yes.”
“Depressed?”
“Certainly not.”
“It must have been difficult managing after he lost his job,” Diamond said, giving her the chance to say something in favour of her dead husband.
“Not at all. He got good redundancy terms. And I’m earning as well.”
“I meant perhaps he was drowning his sorrows?”
“What sorrows?”
“This afternoon bout was exceptional?”
“Very.”
“Which was what upset you?”
She gave a nod. “It’s against my religion.”
Diamond treated the statement as if she were one of those earnest people in suits who knock on doors and ask whether you agree that God’s message has relevance in today’s world. He ignored it. “You’re a nurse, Mrs Noble, and I imagine you’re trained to spot the symptoms of heavy drinking, so I don’t want you to be insulted by this question. What made you decide that your husband was drunk?”
“The state of him. He was slumped in a chair, his eyes were glazed, he couldn’t put two words together. And the brandy bottle was on the table in front of him. The brandy he was given as a leaving present. He promised me he’d got rid of it.”
“Didn’t he like brandy?”
“It’s of the devil.”
“Had he drunk from the bottle?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“Had he ever used drugs in any form?”
She frowned. “Alcohol is a drug.”
“You know what I mean, Mrs Noble.”
“And I’ve seen plenty of drug-users,” she riposted. “I know what to look for.”
“No question of drugs?”
“No question.”
Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose Page 19